Monday Mornings
by Phoebsfan
Summary: Monday mornings around the office just aren't the same. He sits at his desk like always, feet propped up, leaning back until she's sure he'll fall over. She always finds him there on monday mornings, just waiting for her arrival...


Monday Mornings  
Disclaimer: Carter owes them all. I have no claim on them....sad but true. And dang it he even owns there monday morning schdules...  
Rating: PG-13 lang.  
Summery: MSR Monday mornings around the office just aren't the same. He sits at his desk like always, feet propped up, leaning back until she's sure he'll fall over. She always finds him there on monday mornings, just waiting for her arrival...  
an: Hey been awhile, you know the drill review. la la la...bit angsty I know. *represents a flashback of sorts  
  
*He sits at his desk like always, feet propped up, leaning back until she's sure he'll fall over. She always finds him there on monday mornings, just waiting for her arrival. She smiles to herself as he greets her.*  
  
She misses that now. That private smile she always reserved for only him. She never realized before that he was the only one who could coax it out of her.  
  
There's no office now. She doesn't ride that elevator to the basement every morning with a cup of coffee that tastes like dirt and the latest case's autopsy reports. She doesn't come in through the back anymore, now she stops at the front desk and checks in. Displays her badge and empties her pockets as she walks through the metal detector with her idetification hanging on her crisp business suit.   
  
She looks at her watch and complains to herself about how she'll be late for her class again, and why can't Doggett call someone else. Her heels echo on the floor. People nod, fellow agents she's worked with in the past, one's she's shared coffee with, one's who've talked about her over the water cooler. Few try to talk with her. She realizes then that she never had many friends at work. And the few that she did have seem to avoid her now.   
  
There are whispers still. She knows it's likely that there always will be.   
  
Who is the father? How long do you think they were together? Wonder what it took to melt the Ice Queen? What kind of man would leave his kid behind?  
  
And so many more that she doesn't have time to think about.   
  
She could walk these halls blindfolded, she knows the exact amount of steps it takes to reach the elevator. Knows that on a good day it takes three steps less then on a bad day. Knows that oddly, sometimes the sound of her heels clicking on the ground, click click click, are the only thing that has kept her from going mad.  
  
She knows the feel of the button on her finger, would know its texture when matched against any other like it. How it always remains the same steady sixty degrees fairnheit, how it's slick surface slides under her index finger. The familiar ding as the doors slide open warms her heart.  
  
She pretends for a moment that its just another one of those mondays. That he'll be down in their basement lair waiting for her. Waiting to throw words around like confetti, littering the ground and brightening her life. He's down there waiting to play cat and mouse and lead her on a paranormal goosehunt.   
  
Three sharp clicks to the back of the elevator, thirty more seconds till the doors slide shut, a push of the button and it's another fifteen seconds till the basement. She knows this like she know the back of her hand, like she knows the freckles that litter her shoulder, or the dimples on William's cheeks. She knows this like she knows that the sun will rise in the morning regardless of how she feels.   
  
And that damn sun keeps rising. She keeps getting a day older and William keeps changing as well.   
  
But this, this elevator, this routine, the amount of steps it takes to get to that basement office, the click click click of her heels on the floor, this stays the same. This keeps her sane. She pretends again that when she rounds that corner that he'll be sitting there.  
  
But seven clicks later, she sighs and nods her greeting to the agents that took their place. The agents who haven't been able to solve one fucking case on their own since they'd been introduced to the X-Files. She knows it isn't fair to judge them so harshly, they are her friends, and no one could compare to Mulder when it came to expertise in this area, but she hates them for not being him.  
  
Even if its only a momentary hate, one she's over in another three clicks as she enters the room and looks at the pictures that Agent Doggett has handed her.  
  
Agent Doggett presents her with all the information. He hides nothing, doesn't make her guess at a theory while keeping vital evidence back. Simply tells her everything he knows and looks at her hopefully, asking her silently to hand him the answer. Or at least a more logical explanation then the demons his partner has been going on about.  
  
She wishes that for once he'd simply faxed her the information, called her on the phone to schdule the autopsy, and saved her this trip. Saved her the disapointment of not finding Mulder propped up at his desk, saved her the heartache of facing another case without him.   
  
Maybe if he'd held some little piece back and made her guess at a theory, maybe if he'd been sitting propped up at the desk. But still she knows it wouldn't matter. He could never be Mulder.  
  
She turns to leave with excuses about having a class. They let her go. Reyes might call her later to see if she's ok, of course she's ok. Click, click, click. Yes, she's ok.   
  
She's made it to the elevator again. With a ding the doors open. Click, click, click. The doors close and she loses it.  
  
She's done this before. It shouldn't surprise her, it shouldn't make her angry. But it does.   
  
She wipes at the tears in fury. Not caring that her makeup is running or that she's leaving angry red marks on her cheeks from the force of her swipes. By the time the doors have opened again she's collected herself.  
  
She's gotten good at that. Hiding. Lying. Pretending. Click, click, click. She's ok now.   
  
She waves goodbye to the security guards, they always were kind to her. She never suspected them of talking about her over the water cooler. They stood for truth, honor, and justice. Everything that should have been behind those walls. Instead of secrets, lies, shame, and evasion.  
  
Pulling out of the parking lot she pulls out her phone and calls in sick. She can't teach them today. She knows she should. That she should just forget about him and monday mornings. But she wants those lost moments back and today she just can't deal with her new routine.  
  
Can't deal with getting William up and dressed, dropping him at her mothers and driving to Quantico, nodding hello to all her collegues and grabbing a cup of coffee which still tastes like dirt as she heads to her office. There is no one to greet her on mondays there. No one but a model of a skeleton she's taken to calling Fred although it's a female. Sometimes she wishes she were that model.   
  
She usually sits for awhile before her first class. Sometimes she props her feet up, she's fallen more then a few times in the process. But still she does it and marvels at how Mulder always managed to stay upright. Maybe one day she'll master that as well. But not today.  
  
She doesn't pick William up from her mothers. Her mother would only worry and right now she doesn't feel much like being a mother. Right now she'd really just like to curl up in her bed and cry.  
  
She's done that a few times too. Cried until she can't feel anymore, until her heart is empty and her eyes are numb. Until her head feels like exploding, until see falls asleep. Sleep is better then any drug. Because she doesn't dream anymore. Nothing but a big empty blackness, that like the click click click of her heels, is nothing but comforting.  
  
She entertains the thought that he's come back to her while she was gone. That he's used his key to slip in and is now waiting for her on her couch, in her bed. She tries to remember if there had ever been a time when she didn't come back and think that maybe he could be waiting for her inside.  
  
There hasn't.  
  
She tells herself she's a fool. That he isn't waiting on the other side of that door. But still her fingers slip and stutter over the keys as she tries to hurriedly shove the correct one in the hole. Fumbling she finally opens the door and lets out a sigh as her hopes are dashed once more.   
  
Of course he isn't there.   
  
Why would he? He's hiding. He's staying safe. Just because she's hurting doesn't mean he'll drop everything and come back. He doesn't even know she's hurting.   
  
She flings the door shut behind her and barely makes it to the bed before she collapses, void of all energy. She can't keep doing this to herself. She can't keep letting those who depend on her down.  
  
She curls up in a little ball and cries.   
  
Cliched. Her life has become one large cliche. Maybe she should sew it on a pillow. But right now it hurts too bad. It hurts like hell...another cliche. Only she thinks that maybe this cliche isn't quite strong enough.  
  
She wonders if hell can comprehend the lonely, sinking, blackness of her soul. The glass shards that sting with every minute he isn't there. That press deeper and deeper as her blood slowly ebbs from her wounds. She wonders if hell can ever know of her hands, broken, bruised, and bound. Helpless to do anything. Completely helpless to change anything. She doesn't understand because she's never been so helpless. She's always hated helpless. And now it's the only word to define her exsistance.  
  
Hell can't understand how the click of her heels echos off of her empty heart. It can't grasp at how the tears she cries, like memories, fade from her cheeks as quickly as the fall. No she feels worse then hell.  
  
Worse everytime she picks her heart up off the floor only to have it plumet again.  
  
Finally she lets sleep engulf her.  
  
~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~.~~  
  
*She smiles at him in that private smile reserved only for monday mornings. She has a different smile for every other day, whether she realizes it or not.*  
  
He remembers those smiles and wishes to God that he could see them again. They aren't what led him to his car two days ago however. And they aren't what kept him there.  
  
It was his emptyness. His need. And one phone call from a very upset Agent Reyes.  
  
"She needs you."  
  
"I know."  
  
And then he was in his car forgetting all the reasons he'd stayed away.  
  
It had only taken him a good two hours to remember though. Still he never was one to listen to logic. Not when his heart was tied up in something else. And his heart was very tied up in Agent Scully. He was not about to deny that. Never.  
  
They'd come so close to meeting a few months back. He'd come so close to holding her in his arms again. It wasn't fair and he didn't plan on waiting any longer for her.  
  
He needed to hear her voice now.  
  
Countless hours had been spent just staring at his phone, willing it to ring, willing her voice to be on the other end. But it was too dangerous and it never happened. Agent Reyes had surprised him with her call. He guessed he hadn't been careful enough if she could find him. Not that it mattered anymore.  
  
He lets his mind go back to monday mornings. He remembers how they used to be, how he would sit there waiting for her to come in. How he knew exactly how many footsteps it took her to get from the elevator to their door. Two less if she was in a good mood. He knew exactly how long it took her to throw down her findings and give him that smile that seemed to make the world right. He knew how she'd sip her coffee then complain about it's quality. He'd agree and then he'd pull out whatever case he'd dug up, show her whatever slides he'd found, and make her forget about that coffee with a smile of his own, make her forget about her lonely weekend with an inuenndo or two. And remind her of the reasons she hung around with a warm touch as he "accidentally" brushed by her.  
  
He'd lived for monday mornings.  
  
And as he packed his belongings he couldn't picture another monday morning without her.  
  
Picking up his speed, he tries to figure out just what it was about her that has him needing her so. Has him longing for her gentle touch, and pleading for the chance to see her smile. He can't quite pinpoint it. Probably never will be able to. He just knows he needs her and that is all that matters. It is really all that has ever mattered.  
  
Monday mornings mattered. And her decided lack in his of late mattered more then anything right now.  
  
Monday mornings for him now center around a shared office at a high school in Colorado, where he teachs freshmen psychology. Oddly enough he finds he enjoys his job. His co-workers are nice, no mentions of Spooky Mulder there, only John Harrison, boring old John. Every monday it is the same thing, coffee that amazingly enough seems to be an exact duplicate of the federal brand. He wonders if that company ever tastes the stuff they sell. Small talk about the weekend, who spent the weekend fishing, who's wife had a baby, which student skipped their paper once again. Through it all John Harrison merely nods, comments when nessecary, and props his feet up thinking about her monday morning smiles. Some habbits died hard.  
  
He wonders if he can take her back with him. There is a spot open for a biology teacher. She could be Mrs. Harrison and they could raise William together. But it wouldn't be fair to her or too William and so he decides not to mention it.   
  
Maybe if he didn't have a photographic memory he wouldn't be in this car right now. It is after all the picture perfect memories of those monday mornings that they shared that has kept him driving.   
  
He pulls off by her apartment around ten. He's made it and it's still Monday morning. She shouldn't be here but he knows he has to check anyway. Besides he hasn't stopped to use the restroom in far too long and he doesn't think he'll be able to make it all the way to Quantico without doing so. He's here now and he might as well take the chance.  
  
It's all so familiar too him. Nothing has changed since he left months ago. Inside he's sure she's changed things. He wonders if there will be baby toys scattered around, lying on the furniture telling of Williams exsistance. He wonders if she's been able to keep up now that she has a child and a teaching career.   
  
His key slides into her lock with ease. He knows that lock like he knows the back of his hand, like he knows how many freckles spot her shoulders, like he knows the familiar click of her heels. He knows that lock better then his own. And so his fingers don't slip or stutter or fumble.   
  
He pauses in her doorway, she's sleeping and she's beautiful. She's even smiling, though he can see the tracks of her tears. He knows how she feels.  
  
"Scully." he whispers. Her eyes open immediately, as if she's been waiting for him. As if she knew he was coming.  
  
"Mulder." she smiles, it's her monday morning smile, the one she reserves only for him. The one only he can coax out of her. "What time is it?" she asks.  
  
"Ten." he answers. Her smile widens.  
  
"Good. I really didn't want to spend another monday morning without you." he crosses the distance between them and pulls her into his arms.  
  
"Neither did I. Neither did I." 


End file.
